


no transitory

by glory_box



Category: A Nightmare on Elm Street (2010), Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-23 22:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16627904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glory_box/pseuds/glory_box
Summary: Freddy knows the power of memory. How it changes realities, gives shape to fear. He knows Quentin's still remembering things. Every time he comes back to the preschool and walks its halls, he's trying to put his past together somewhere in his head.





	no transitory

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday gift for a friend who wanted me to find a way to make Freddy power bottom. I did my damn best, even though this pairing is very much not my cup of tea. Some real problematic content right here, folks. Don't say I didn't warn you.

For some time, Freddy just watches him. Time is something he's been cursed with an excess of, but so has the dreamwalker, too. So he just watches Quentin. Quentin, whose hatred of him had been so powerful that it had called forth a god, who had seen his prayers answered. Now, they serve out their own separate but entwined divine punishments.  
  
Freddy has straddled the line between living and dead, consciousness and unawareness, for far longer than Quentin has. Here, too, he's confined to his own plane, a level above into the dream world. Even the Entity recognizes that Freddy is to walk his world alone.  
  
But Quentin keeps coming. Revisiting the scene of the crime, maybe. Freddy walks his world of ashes and stays back just far enough that Quentin doesn't know a thing. He watches as the boy comes back between trials time and time again. Sometimes he's picking through the front yard, pausing to run his hand down the slope of a colorful, hollow-plastic slide, or to take a seat by the little swing set there. He's always got a backpack with him, and even when he's under the pretense that he's alone, it looks like Quentin's still putting in the effort to pretend he's only there to scavenge.  
  
It's interesting, sort of, but only because there's little else to keep Freddy engaged, here. Infinitely regenerating prey is entertaining enough, but there's a barely-controlled burning inside of him when he thinks about the limitations imposed on him here. He can't penetrate the dreams of anyone outside of the Entity's realm. He'd looked. As far as he knows, he has no more access to Nancy, nor the world he and Quentin once shared with her.  
  
He thinks Quentin must be glad, in a way, that it's him and not her. He finds the kid agitating, at best; it makes him feel nothing but revulsion and pity when he thinks about how very much Quentin seems to think he's been able to save the girl. Freddy hopes that this respite will not be permanent. Eventually, he will get what he wants. He must be patient.  
  
So he passes the time by watching Quentin, amusing himself by wondering what Quentin is really looking for when he comes skulking around Badham Preschool. Freddy's extradimensional prison is the place tied most strongly to his energy, and Quentin knows it; it's interesting that he keeps coming back here.  
  
But Freddy knows the power of memory. How it changes realities, gives shape to fear. He knows Quentin's still remembering things. Every time he comes back to the preschool and walks its halls, he's trying to put his past together somewhere in his head.  
  
On this occasion, however, Quentin comes to the end of the hallway, past the little blue lockers and posters curling off the chipping walls, and he stands at the top of the staircase, staring down into the swimming heat below.  
  
When Quentin's head begins to drop, it appears as though he thinks it might be the warmth coming from the boiler that's overcoming him, before it's clear that he's registered the way his surroundings are turning to monochrome, the color and light leached from the basement. Ash pours down onto his shoulders and head as he slips over into the dream world completely, his shape and form becoming accessible to Freddy.  
  
Quentin's turning towards him, his pale face draining of all color, so that he blends into the concrete. Freddy gives himself a moment to enjoy the look on his face. Had Quentin ever wondered why Springwood had seemed so silent, every time he chose to visit?  
  
"What could you possibly be looking for down here?" Freddy wonders aloud, flexing his gloved fingers out at his side. "Apart from me?"  
  
"Doesn't matter what you do to me," says Quentin, tight, strained, both answering and ignoring his question. His dark brows are dropped low over his hooded eyes, and he looks afraid, yes, but there's also this sort of resoluteness to him. His grim expression says it all. "You can't actually kill me."  
  
"Oh," says Freddy. "Can't I?" He lets the biting edge of the blades swish together.  
  
Quentin's moving towards the furnace. He's unarmed, evidently, but he's tensed up like he's looking for an exit. "How long were you following me?"  
  
"What? Now I'm not even allowed to _look?_ " Freddy asks, mock-offended.  
  
"Don't," says Quentin, groans it, pained. He looks ill. He's never hesitant to come up against Freddy at any given moment, but the interesting thing is that he always looks panicked the whole time. Quentin's fear of him is a curious thing. Not as much fun to pick apart as Nancy's, but enough to keep him occupied. He's toeing his way back towards the steps, a hand on the rail. They both know that even if he makes it up there, his options for exiting the preschool are limited.  
  
So Freddy follows him, until Quentin's forced up one of the steps. He reaches out, snagging the hem of his shirt on one sharp tip. It catches, and the fabric splits. Quentin tugs away sharply, but Freddy's quicker, sweeping his other hand up to grab him above the elbow. When Quentin turns into his grip, Freddy's clawed hand catches him by the collar, fingers twisting dangerously close to Quentin's ear and throat.  
  
"You never used to mind," he says, and then he hauls Quentin sideways, shoving him backwards off of the stairs. Quentin collides on the floor with a thud, wheezing and clutching his side. He's trying to get up to his feet as Freddy steps down towards him. Before Quentin can fully sit up, he plants a foot against his chest, then leans his weight into it. Quentin goes flat on the ground again, straining against him, his hands coming up to try to shove him off.  
  
"Just kill me," he says, squirming, his bloodshot eyes staring hatefully up at Freddy. He's bleeding from somewhere around the ribs; he'd been cut when Freddy had pushed him down. It's collecting in a dark little pool right next to him, drop by drop. "Just do it. Like it'll change anything. You fucking _freak_."  
  
But Freddy already knows that, just as he knows that he can still hurt Quentin in ways that will kill him in other ways.  
  
"No," he says, and then he drags his boot down, down over Quentin's stomach, until he's pressing the sole right over his groin. The kid seems to get the picture, and he gasps, trying to thrash away, but between the wound he's twitching away from and Freddy's supernatural strength, he doesn't manage to get away.  
  
He brings the tip of his boot up between Quentin's splayed legs, finding the soft bulge there and pressing in hard, making Quentin cry out in discomfort. "You, you fucking _asshole_ , stop..."  
  
"Stop," mimics Freddy. He presses in harder. "It's a little too late for that, huh? Almost two decades too late."  
  
Quentin's frantic eyes go all liquid for a moment, and then he's angry again, shouting and trying to dislodge Freddy from atop him. "Get off me!"  
  
Freddy rocks forward. He's starting to come into his element now; the fear he senses coming off of Quentin is just what he'd been looking for. "You want me to get off?"  
  
He just shouts in response; it doesn't seem like he's managing to say much beyond the sounds of pain and distress. Quentin's still resistant, and finally he manages to wiggle back far enough that he's able to roll onto his side. Freddy backs off and lets him get to his feet, and watches as Quentin doesn't take even a moment to question why he'd been let go- he just bolts up the stairs, panting.  
  
He's staggering down the hallway, and as Freddy trails him, he comes to a stop before the hole broken through the floor, preventing a straight path down the hallway. Quentin's breathing hard as he shoulders by a few lockers and tries to cut through one of the activity rooms. Freddy's caught up with him by then, and Quentin gives him a look over his shoulder, both angry and afraid. Freddy just grins, teeth gleaming through the stretched, gnarled skin, and reaches out to shove Quentin into the yellow-painted wall.  
  
Quentin hits it with a crack, and for a few moments they grapple as a renewed burst of adrenaline has Quentin managing a grip on Freddy's arms, his clawed hand hovering precariously close to Quentin's face.  
  
"Stop!" Quentin shouts, uselessly. He struggles against Freddy until he's been pinned into the chalkboard, but he's still trying to squirm away. Blood's getting all over the place- splattering on the shelves, the colorful drawings, the little plastic chairs.  
  
Freddy's getting tired of Quentin's antics. "Hold still," he says, not for Quentin's benefit, before he lifts his arm up and backwards, then brings it down hard, right into the soft part where Quentin's armpit meets his chest. He feels the blades sink in more than he hears them, the way they puncture the skin with just a little bit of resistance, and then the rest is just easy, sliding through flesh and muscle and ligament.  
  
Quentin just screams, desperate and furious. The hate in his eyes would kill, if it could. Just drop Freddy dead right then and there. But death's never wanted him. Quentin would do well to finally learn that. Freddy thinks that Nancy got the message far longer than Quentin did; she'd realized the futile hope of it all the moment he took her mother from her.  
  
He keeps his hand poised there, pinning Quentin to the wall and enjoying the look on Quentin's face as he grabs viciously at his wrist, wanting, even now, to do anything to get away from Freddy. So he decides to grant him that much, ripping his hand free, leaving four new wounds.  
  
His little playmate immediately falls to the floor, shouting, one blood-soaked hand flying up to touch the injury as if bewildered. Freddy gives him a kick, knocking Quentin over onto his back. One of the little chairs goes scattering. He's a sight to behold, laying there on the dust-caked and blood-specked floor, his clothes in disarray and soaking to all shades of crimson.  
  
Freddy kneels over him, planting a knee on the floor on either side of Quentin's waist. He's shifting beneath Freddy, his pulse thudding noticeably in his throat, beating to the rhythm of his fear.  
  
"What do you remember?" Freddy drawls, lowering his gloved hand down towards Quentin's face. He flinches, of course, his eyes squeezing shut, like maybe if he tries hard enough, he'll fall asleep and get away from his living nightmare.  
  
"What do you _want?_ " Quentin asks. He's begging, almost, looking up at Freddy with cold loathing. "What the _hell_ do you want? Haven't you had enough? When it's gonna _stop_ , Krueger?" He sounds desperate, verging on full-out grief.  
  
His words do not inspire any particular emotion in Freddy, apart from amusement. He's still grinning, keeping Quentin pinned in place below him. "Nothing you do will ever make me stop," he says to Quentin. He can't believe the kid doesn't get it yet. After all this time. " _Nothing._ "  
  
Quentin's moaning, trying to twist away from him, cringing inward to his ruined shoulder. It's bleeding heavily, and the color is draining from his face along with it.  
  
"You didn't used to be so afraid of me," Freddy croons, giving a slow blink as he studies Quentin's face. "But you know that, right? Everything's come back to you."  
  
There's no need for Quentin to respond for Freddy to know that he's right. He edges back, pins Quentin's thighs down with his weight as he brings his bladeless hand down to the fly on his jeans. He runs a thumb over it, right atop where he can feel Quentin's cock through the rough denim. It's still strange, in some ways, to consider him as an adult now, although he's still a child in so many other ways. Nancy, too. It feels like just moments ago that they'd been so small and so loyal to him. Too loyal to him. Until they weren't.  
  
Quentin seems to be understanding what's going on, at least on some level, because now he's making these little choking sounds, like he can't believe what's happening and is struggling against the urge to sob. His expression is all twisted up in agony as Freddy works the zipper down on his jeans and then reaches to grope at his cock through his briefs. Oh, yes, Freddy can't help but think, Quentin is definitely a man now.  
  
He can't resist the urge to get a look at him - it feels like he's waited too long already - and hooks the elastic waistband under a couple of his fingers, tugging them down to Quentin's thighs. He's got a sturdy-looking cock, even flaccid, and Freddy reaches for it without a moment of hesitation. He runs a finger over the soft foreskin sliding over the head, toying with him like that for a bit, sliding it back just enough to expose a little bit of the head before working it back over. Quentin seems to begin to properly process his shock just as his dick is coming to life in Freddy's hand, all hot and heavy with blood.  
  
"You didn't touch her, did you?" Freddy murmurs. He leans over, drops his mouth close to Quentin's ear. "My little Nancy?" Beneath him, Quentin tries to turn away, but it's useless. Freddy presses his face to his neck, in his hair. His sense of smell has mostly gone, burned away in the fire, but he can still taste, and when he slides his tongue up behind Quentin's ear and receives a shiver in response, he's only further encouraged. "Did you... _ruin_ her... for me?"  
  
Quentin's shaking his head back and forth, eyes squeezed shut. "No! Just stop! _Fuck!_ " He seems to have begun to lose his composure, because he's babbling a little, his eyes wide and anxious, like a rabbit in the sights of a starving hunter. But his hips are pushing up, a little, right into Freddy's hand, and he doesn't think he's imagining it. He's always been good with his hands.  
  
"She was mine first," says Freddy softly, all ice and frostbite. "You were mine first, too." He gives Quentin's swollen cock a little squeeze, eliciting a whimper.  
  
"No," says Quentin, but his voice is fading away to a little whisper in the back of his throat. The blood pooling beneath him is spreading out into a wider and wider puddle, but Freddy thinks he has enough time to indulge himself a bit.  
  
He's listless enough at this point that when Freddy shifts above him to wrestle off his pants, he hardly responds, although a person with more energy might be able to slip out from underneath. Freddy does not look at his melted, ruined skin as he exposes it; it's Quentin that needs to look. Needs to really see what had happened to him.  
  
"You're still mine."  
  
Freddy straddles Quentin again, taking his cock up into his hand. He lets a stream of saliva drip from his mouth onto his clenched hands, working it up in with the precum, turning it sticky and slimy and filthy with it. When Quentin's cock has gotten so hard that it's twitching, stretching the foreskin taut all around it, Freddy brings himself to his knees and reaches to align Quentin around where he needs him to be.  
  
It's been a long time - so long he can't remember the last time - Freddy's felt genuine joy at something. What does it is the look of shock and betrayal and disgust that explodes on Quentin's face as he realizes that Freddy has no interest in violating him in any invasive sort of way.  
  
"Fuck," Quentin whimpers, miserably. His watery eyes are sort of focused somewhere on the ceiling, like he's desperately looking for the light at the end of the tunnel, as if he can't bleed out fast enough.  
  
Being something far beyond human, pain doesn't register for Freddy the way it does for others. He exists in a form that can overcome any pain, rendering the experience of pain to be one without any consequence at all. So pain is something he's learned to revel in, causing and receiving it, and he likes the way Quentin's dick cleaves into him and sends a sharp thrill of it up into his gut.  
  
It's strange, how there's not a sound in the preschool except for Quentin's groans of pain and protest and Freddy's staccato breaths. It makes what's happening seem that much worse, somehow, like these halls have already borne witness to more than enough pain.  
  
Freddy takes a bit to find a rhythm, to let himself mold to the fit of Quentin, but then he hits the right tempo, and it becomes easier. He's still smiling the whole while; the look on Quentin's face, the sounds he's making- it's as if he's never once stopped and asked himself, how can things get any worse? He's a fool for still being so ignorant, Freddy thinks. He has no sympathy for him.  
  
Quentin's dick is easy to manipulate; the more blood he loses, the stiller he goes, but he's still hard, jabbing up into Freddy's guts every time he drops back onto it. It feels good, sure, but what he's really after is Quentin's despair. "I used to play with Nancy like this..."  
  
Beneath him, Quentin's eyes open, sharp and hateful and focused again, right on Freddy's face.  
  
"Well," amends Freddy, through slightly shaky breaths as he steadies himself on top of Quentin. "She was too little, at first, so I'd pull her on top, and she'd just rub against me." He laughs darkly at the way Quentin's expression contorts from rage to pain and back. "You probably won't believe me, but it never took much to make her come."  
  
Quentin chokes. He might be crying. It's hard to tell what's snot and what's tears and what's sweat on his face.  
  
Freddy grinds his ass into Quentin's pelvis, sucks in a breath. "I can't stand sharing her with you," he growls, bringing his gloved hand up, planting it on Quentin's chest to give himself some leverage as he fucks himself on his cock. "Or sharing you with her..." He drums his fingers, and the razor points catch little tears in Quentin's shirt.  
  
"No," Quentin's moaning, weakly. His cheek's smeared with blood from where he'd turned his head into the puddle of his own gore. He's starting to look pretty faded, but Freddy realizes what the 'no' really meant when he feels Quentin's dick jump inside of him. He rocks back against the kid, feeling him flag and then go soft. He slips out shortly after that, all drained and spent and leaking cum all over his abdomen.  
  
Freddy pulls off of him, and for a bit he just kneels there, considering him. Quentin's more or less gone, his breathing slowing, his eyes glassing over, but if Freddy has to give him credit for something, it's the way he keeps his gaze trained squarely on his face. Unblinking.  
  
He doesn't consider him for long, though. Quentin's bled out by the time Freddy has redressed himself, and the Entity has already come to take the body away by the time he leaves the preschool.  
  
It might take a long time to really break him, Freddy thinks, but that's alright. They're going to be here for a while. Quentin's eventually going to learn that the only thing they've got now is one another.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. ❤


End file.
